WAR STORIES: bbc sherlock
by PlayingtheBone
Summary: A series of shorts detailing the stories and battles of the LONDON THEATRE.  Chapter 2: the army doctor.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Sebastian Moran has had the misfortune of having met the 4 most dangerous men of London (in order of appearance).

* * *

><p><em>john watson.<em>

"This is the training facility. Here, you will be taught basic tactical skills- ones that you hopefully will never need to use."

Moran barely glances up from the scope of his sniper rifle as the new recruits file in to the staging area, but he does grin when he pulls the trigger just once, spraying an entire magazine at his paper foes.

_CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK_

…and just to clarify, he hates this kind of combative shooting more than anything- in fact, during his (short) tenure as a standard issue soldier, he very nearly disassembled the automatic feature of his sub just out of indignant pride.

No, he prefers the _finesse_ of his cold black piece, and he prefers doing it alone, having walked out on his spotter long ago.

As he climbs down from his uncomfortable perch, he sends glares at the young soldiers- the white and red medic sign is prominent against their fatigues, and some of them flinch.

Except for one- a sandy blond haired chap, slightly younger than himself.

Relatively attractive, affable-seeming young man, but forgettable, and he stands with his legs shoulder-width apart, arms clasped in the familiar military rest.

No, he doesn't remember much about this particular soldier, only that he is very attentive about everything his commanding officer tells him, and that he is a surprisingly good shot for a medic.

Afterwards, Moran goes out to meet him, grudgingly impressed.

"Sebastian Moran."

The young man glances up from meticulously cleaning his army piece.

"John Watson."

He has no idea.

He has no idea that the hand he is shaking- well, it in fact is the residence of his killer's peculiar trigger finger.

* * *

><p><em>mycroft holmes.<em>

As the gavel slams, Sebastian Moran is immediately escorted out of the quiet courthouse, but not, as he assumes, out the door, but to a private room, where he is handed a cell phone and left alone.

It rings shortly after Moran begins absolutely dying of boredom, so he answers.

"Sebastian Moran. Born in 1840, in London- went to Eton, Oxford…dispatched from the very beginning of the war, really, but you quickly rose the ranks. Amateur gambler, enjoys hunting big game- but dishonorably discharged for disorderly conduct, talking back to senior officers, injuring at least three members of your platoon."

He blinks at the smooth voice.

"Not to mention generally unpleasant behavior. You've been a bad, bad soldier, Mr. Moran."

All quiet.

"Is that it, then?" he says.

"*_sigh.* _Given your particularly…outstanding records, really, as a marksman, the…corporation that I happen to represent would like to contract your services, for what might be considered a very large sum of money. Privately, of course."

Moran's brow wrinkles slightly.

"For how much?"

The voice at the end of the line chuckled, followed by some shifting of papers.

"Well, now, Mr. Moran- due to your rather…tenuous behavior, and the fallibility of this telephone line, I'm certain another meeting might suffice- perhaps face to face? My assistant will disclose the time and place."

Just like magic, the door opens, revealing a pretty, if a bit sharply dressed in both expression and cloth, woman.

She smiles pleasantly, but Moran frowns again.

"Why would you think I'd take this job?"

"hmm…I can ensure it, really. The initial sum provided will be sufficient to get you, perhaps, a flat in one of the better regions of London. The payment following your...actions…will be enough to keep you there. Perhaps indefinitely." _*snigger*_ "Perhaps the rest of your life."

The gravity of this particular statement strikes him, and he bestows a somewhat thin grimace at the woman standing in the doorway.

"What did you say your name was, again?"

"I didn't. Antigone."

Of course, it seems obvious that the thin, wraithlike man he meets in the shady café downtown is not the mysterious voice.

Of course, it seems obvious that he takes the case.

_Mycroft may have stopped an impending nuclear disaster with Moran's particular skill set, but his own abilities are an ability to…deduce and predict, even more so than his genius brother. Doesn't mean he knows about the rogue sniper turned mercenary he's just let loose._

* * *

><p><em>james moriarty.<em>

Moran walks into his expensive (thank you very much, Mycroft) flat, and downs a shot of brandy, ignoring the man sitting cross legged like a petulant child.

Many of his customers do this as a scare tactic.

But the strange little figure instead just rests his head in his hands and sort of…_croons_.

"Sebastian…."

The voice is ridiculously high pitched, enough that he turns from the bar to assess the figure.

Black silk and cotton suit, hand-stitched and fitted precisely to the man. Short cropped hair, wide eyes, lips curled back into a smile of barely contained glee.

He's not faking it.

"Can I call you Seb, perhaps?...more convenient, if you will than, persay, _SebastianMoran_."

He says it all in a rush.

"I won't pay you for your services you know. I just like _handpicking_ my favorites."

The man stands up, coming to his full height of just a foot shorter than Moran, and traces his fingers over the other man's collar as if checking merchandise for flaws.

Obviously, he has none.  
>"Oh, and I liike you, Seb. You don't speak. You do your job."<p>

"_You see it. _Like me."

Pause.

"Only, really not like me at all."

"Since I'm a genius."

Moran is-surprisingly- not that perturbed by the freaky little man, so even when he pauses, with his face only inches away from his own, the sniper doesn't flinch.

"You know my name, don't you?"

Shaking of a head, amending a statement.

"Or you _should_, I mean, some of my best men hired you out, have already tested my _new little toy._"

He should be offended by this. He really should, but all Sebastian feels is calm.

"Of course, I had to kill them once they were done _playing_ with you- ugh, but my _old_ gunman- well, _*scoff*_, he's so boooring. Had to get rid of him."

The strange little man circles him softly.

"But _you_. Well, look at you. You're state of the art, man! A machine, all interlocking and waiting, just waiting for someone like me! For someone with the software, the experience, the know how to _program _you!"

His lips curl up even more.

"Say my name. Say it say it sayitsayit."

"Moriarty."

And just like that, Sebastian Moran becomes Seb.

* * *

><p><em>sherlock holmes.<em>

John Watson, bleeding faintly from the head, is an unconscious lump on the back of the room- out of site, pretty much out of mind.

At first impression, Moran doesn't think much of Sherlock, despite Moriarty's clear infatuation with the consulting detective.

The pale man is not so much lanky as he is a sort of stork, white and smooth and fragile, though his propensity towards thick wool coats and scarves helps to give the illusion of a more proportional figure in regards to his height and width.

His mouth is a gaping open rift in what appears to be a sharply angled face, and he stares in shock at his friend crumpled in the corner, his eyes a clear and liquid grey.

I mean, really, Seb thinks.

In this particular area of interest Moriarty must be gravely mistaken, to have invested so much of his empire in this self identified sociopath.

For the expression on his face is that of a decidedly emotional man, and if this Sherlock Holmes has within his grasp the ability to feel empathy and _terror_ for a person whose little value came from his medical expertise, then, well, Moriarty must be insane.

Abruptly, the pale man shuts his lips in a thin line.

When he opens them nearly a second later, the words are flat, at a near sub-sonic level, even as he gestures at Seb.

"Sniper, from the looks of your right shoulder and pointer finger on your right hand. Using a…hmn…not standard issue rifle. Skilled combatant, many people have used your abilities before, and from the look of your clothing, you're very very good, very rich…you were in Afghanistan, for a long time, really, I might even speculate you were in the first wave of British troops- but dishonorable discharge, judging from your current position now- being so close to Moriarty- and you are- would go against all of your morals if you were just a regular old soldier…"

Seb blinks once, then raises a SIG.

_Standard small firearms distributed to all soldiers- John Watson has one exactly like it._

"Heh. I can see why he likes you now."

What happens afterwards is pure semantics, but in this moment, the small twinge of _jealousy_ and _competition_ run shivering through Seb's heart as he realizes the implications of this man to the sniper's own career, then remembers with a wince the explicit instructions _NOT TO KILL SHERLOCK HOLMES._


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: Captain John Watson has graduated from army medic to full on soldier. Sarah Sawyer has taken his place.

* * *

><p>Obviously, Sarah is very often not there, and though she is good, John Watson is undoubtedly the better doctor.<p>

Also obvious is the fact that John Watson is extremely prone to injury.

The first time he shows up at her door, she _almost_ shuts the door in his face- partially because John shows his face around too often, but also because, okay, it is _3 in the fuckin' morning_.

Thankfully, he is wearing that particularly pale, honey-colored jumper, so the giant bloodstains show up luridly against the cream knit, which almost perfectly matches the sickly color of his face.

Sherlock swoops in just as she's about to close the door, still garbed in the black coat, lapels flying, and looking vampiric in the dim light of her hallway save for the purple bruise he's sporting.

She needs twelve stitches to seal the wound, along with gauze, tape, and profuse amounts of disinfectant (John insisted, no anesthetics), and by the time he leaves, the man is about a pint lighter than before.

Sarah says nothing as she tends to the cut, even when she pulls out a sliver of wood, a centimeter wide, 9 long, and splintering.

The next time this happens is about a month later, with John cradling his injured arm against his chest, and Sherlock holding a wad of toilet paper to his head.

This time, there are two stitches, painkillers, and physical therapy involved.

She dreams of London that night.

She's having a bit of a lie-in one cold afternoon, flicking aimlessly at the telly and nestled in a cocoon of down comforters.

There are three knocks at the door, for propriety only, before John lets himself in (it seems that despite the breakup, things between them will always be just on the left of friendly).

He smiles as he settles himself on the sofa with her, wincing slightly as he does so, and the words leap unbidden from her throat.

"Can I- can I see them?"

John is startled for a second- he shrugs, and pulls off the lumpy pullover.

During their brief tenure as a couple, they had only been really intimate once- after a particularly bad day at work followed by a particularly insufferable 20-something genius.

They'd broken up a week later.

The scars mapped out on his chest and back and arms are in various states of healing- the newest (4:52 am; John had landed hard on a gravel driveway, Sherlock had a split lip) still pink and shining, the oldest (the shot, the unfortunately chipped shoulder blade and clavicle and severance of several tendons) a pale, puffy white.

She traces the lines softly- here, a vague pinprick was an IV, a number of shallow slices across his back suggestive of whipping. Sarah runs her hands over the bullet wound, wraps her hand around the front to feel the exit point.

He shivers, the plain of his back a quivering pattern of roads and streams and dips, of war stories and trauma and an ingenious map of military strategy carved more permanently than a tattoo on his bones.

Sherlock's, on the other hand, speak of an intellect- one evening, he appears at her doorway alone, his unhealthy pallor even more emphasized by the owlish black circles under his eyes.

Almost belatedly, she remembers that (Captain) John is at a commemoration for a fellow soldier, and she ushers the marble man in.

As Sarah stitches up a sizable gash on his left arm, she nearly misses the soft swelling of skin under her fingers, and the subtle darkness around the region.

Each scar is just a bare hint, a gesture against his skin, signified only by a slightly raised surface on the interior of his elbow.

They are lined up like little goose-bump soldiers in a neat, straight, line- a series of direct orders that are meticulous and excruciatingly, exactingly intelligent.

She says nothing, just follows their barking command with thread and forceps.

The day is bright, in the morning- despite the young detective currently passed out on her sofa (apparently, the two fighter-flatmates have taken on her home as an additional place of residence).

She feels for her forehead, for the faint lump left by the unfortunate Chinese circus incident, and feels vaguely depressed.

She sighs.


End file.
